Remembering Jerry Berger

Jerry Berger, longtime columnist for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and St. Louis Post-Dispatch, died yesterday in Coral Springs, Florida, at age 87.

Berger’s husband, Victor Isart, told the Post-Dispatch that Berger’s health declined recently after he broke his leg in a fall. In Berger’s latter years, complications from throat cancer affected Berger’s voice, causing him to speak in a strained whisper, an ironic turn, since the longstanding gossip reporter would often publish what he was told (or overheard) in hushed tones.

In St. Louis, Berger was like Oz: the all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-intimidating. One of his tactics for getting people to talk was to say, I’m going to print what I’ve heard unless you tell me otherwise, which often resulted in some unintended beans getting spilled. Many readers would turn to Berger’s column even before the scanning headlines and weather, if only to make sure they were—or weren’t—in the newspaper. For over 30 years, St. Louisans would say they loved or loathed him but never missed a word that he wrote.

Berger retired from the Post-Dispatch in 2004 and reemerged a few years later with an online column, Berger’s Beat. In February 2011, SLM writer Jeannette Cooperman penned a memorable profile of Berger, which, coincidentally, appeared in the same issue as a “Best Burgers” package and featured a colorful caricature of Berger.

In the profile, Cooperman wrote that Berger developed what came to be known as “Bergerisms,” mash-ups “modeled after those of columnist Walter Winchell, 40 years earlier. People who left a job ‘ankled,’ an executive was a ‘topper,’ TV folk were ‘tubelings,’ a publicity tour was a ‘tubthumper,’ a marriage was an ‘aislewalk,’ an expecting couple were ‘infanticipating,” and if their marriage was ending, they were ‘getting separate mail.’”

“Berger made mistakes,” Cooperman wrote, “but they were usually small. If readers liked the ink, inaccuracies slid. If they called to blast his accuracy, it was usually because an item had scorched their marriage or tarnished their reputation.” Berger would get his story out ahead of press releases and sometimes broke people’s personal news before they were ready.

Read More: “Want to know a secret? Jerry Berger will tell you anything.”

After Berger’s passing, Cooperman heard from Berger’s longtime friend Rose Jonas. “No one had ever captured him the way you had, and this whirler of tales really had told you the truth—mostly—but he let you see more of himself than anyone ever had,” Jonas said. “I have sad eyes today. What a life. He lived every inch of it and without apology.”

Personally, I knew Berger from frequent “sightems” around town: Schneithorst’s for breakfast, Protzel’s Deli for lunch, and evening food events, which Berger would cover along with endless society functions and fundraisers, accompanied by his little notebooks, which the wordsmith often produced faster than a slip of the tongue.

As a writer covering the restaurant beat, I respected Berger for often being able to confirm industry scuttlebutt —and report it—quicker than anyone else in town, sometimes forcing other dining writers to garnish his scoops with some rather mundane sprinkles.

Years earlier, as a restaurateur, my dealings with Berger came with a heavy helping of education. At one time, I was co-owner of Harvest restaurant, where I ran the dining room. The Richmond Heights eatery was among the hottest tickets in town for a number of years; it was full every night, and reservations were pretty much mandatory, with weekend tables booking up four to six weeks in advance. When Berger first visited, I wondered whether to drop a check on his table. My partner opined, “The last restaurant to drop a check on Jerry Berger’s table was never mentioned in his column again.”

We would always know when Harvest got a Berger kudo, as orders would increase for whatever entrée he happened to mention in his column. On one occasion, I remember a guest presenting a copy of the Post-Dispatch that was folded to show the Bergermeister’s column and asking to reserve an order of the beef dish he had recommended.

It was no secret that Berger could drive restaurant traffic as well as a favorable dining review.

One Saturday night at peak time, around 7:30 p.m., Berger called and asked for a table. Panicked, I tried to shuffle the seating chart, attempting to create a space where there was less than none. Knowing I couldn’t say no to Berger but having no options, I said, “Jerry, I can have something for you in 30 to 45 minutes.” Berger shot back, “Babe, I’m sitting in the parking lot.”

On another occasion, the hostess told me, “George, you have the mayor holding on line one, and now Jerry Berger is on line two.” Without hesitation, I punched line two.

But perhaps it was my first encounter with Berger that stands out most. I later wrote about it in 2017, after being asked, “Have you ever had to ask anyone to leave any of your restaurants?”: 

Jerry Berger, the former gossip columnist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, was in the house. He was to be seated at Table No. 53, the table in front of the fireplace, the see-and-be-seen table. Berger had briefly been waiting in the bar, chatting up customers and smoking his trademark cigarette. At the time, smoking was allowed in Harvest’s bar but expressly forbidden in the dining area. When I accompanied him to his table, his cigarette was still firmly in hand.

“I need to ask you to put out your cigarette,” I politely asked. “You know there’s no smoking in the dining room.”

“C’mon, babe,” he replied. “Just go get me an ashtray, will ya?”

After several repeated requests—then pleas—I knew 80 other people were witnessing the sideshow at center court, likely wagering whether the restaurant’s minority owner would cave or have the nerve to boot the city’s most intimidating person from the city’s hottest restaurant.

“I’ll tell ya what, Jerry,” I said, trying to nudge him away from the table. “Let’s you and I go back to the bar, and I’ll hold that primo table for as long as you want it held.”

By the grace of God, Berger agreed.

There were whispers throughout the restaurant, and some money might have changed hands. But Harvest’s no-smoking policy remained unscathed.